Denouncing November Blue
by crackers4jenn
Summary: It starts with a bowl of candy. Dwight, Pam, Jim. All the drama-rama of Andy/Angela.


01.

The best kind of friendship is the unexpected kind. Like, that first day of school, way back when the building still facilitated a playground, you all sort of grouped together in totally predictable ways. The girls huddled together, giggling over New Kids on the Block (_total_ Jordan Knight fan) and Ralph Maccio while the boys hung upside down on the jungle gym, spitting on each other and swapping punches. It really didn't extend beyond that. And, yeah, maybe it was cooler to hang out with the girl who had a hidden tube of lipstick in the pocket of her backpack that she'd stolen from her older sister, but rarely did your social bubble blossom farther than that.

Pam peers over the high top of the reception desk, staring at Jim. He catches the implied _hello_, offering up a quick smile, one that he doesn't wait to be reciprocated before he's burying himself back in his work.

Jim was a quick friend. An awkward first 'hi, how are you?' that was quickly dispelled when Michael entered the picture and proceeded to make them both feel so uncomfortable, the only logical thing to do was band together and laugh about it--and from henceforth a friendship was born.

But Dwight...

02.

It starts with a bowl of candy.

"_Pam_," Dwight greets, in a way that is both curt and insincere, like there on his obligatory To Do list each morning is greet the custodial staff, the maintenance people, and her, the lowly receptionist.

So she sorta sighs, offering up an equally lackluster, "Dwight."

He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack, and starts to walk past the desk when, about midway through, he stops and considers something.

"What?" she asks. Does she have something on her--? Is her hair--?

Oh. He's staring at the candy dish. Well, no, more sort of _squinting_ at the candy dish.

"What?" she asks again, resisting the maternal urge of pulling the candy bowl in close, away from the appraising eyes of Dwight.

"What is that? What's in there?"

She ducks a little, so that she's eye level with the bowl. "Oh. They're just gumdrops."

He takes a step closer, eyes still locked on the candy. He bends at the waist, staring, staring, still staring.

Using a finger, she pushes the bowl forward. "You can try some. If you want."

His eyes dart to hers. He's searching for _something_, for long moments, so long that it makes her feel uncomfortable, and just when she thinks she might actually flinch away or break eye contact, his own line of eyesight jumps about a foot and a half up and over her shoulder, just to the left. Then he's turning stiffly, mumbling, "Candy is for _girls_," and bolting forward in an undignified fashion.

Pam turns and looks over her shoulder just quick enough to catch the top of Angela's head disappear from view.

03.

She's not sure how she got here. One minute she was sitting next to Dwight, offering a friendly, solidarity moment of silence as he struggled to not break down after hearing Andy's announcement of a successful first date with Angela, the next she's got an armful of weird, warm, emotional Schrute.

It takes a moment of letting reality catch up with her before she can come to terms with this, and then she's letting her arms close around him, telling him everything will be alright in that sad, small, quiet voice she inherited from her mom.

She remembers a time when everything about this situation was reversed. When she sat alone in an empty hallway, crying her eyes out. When it was her world upside down. When everything hurt, and when Dwight stumbled upon her and offered her his own strange brand of sympathy. The least she could do was give back what he first gave to her.

It only lasts a moment, then he's pulling away, not ashamed or embarrassed, just lost in his own misery. He's not crying, but he's close to it, and that tugs at her in a way she probably never would've expected it to. I mean, it's _Dwight_. He cries over his job and he cries over Michael, but he doesn't cry because he's heartbroken. Pam doesn't know what to do with that realization, and it sits heavy inside her. Absurdly, it makes her feel guilty for all the pranks she and Jim ever played on him, just for laughs and because they were bored and he's _such_ an easy target.

"You can go," he mutters, without looking at her.

It'd be easy to. To step back inside and get Jim, and have _him_ handle this. Or sit back at her desk and answer the phone and pretend like nothing's wrong, like he isn't sitting in some smelly staircase, wallowing in pity.

"That's okay," she says, trying for reassuring, almost peppy. "Ryan's taking my calls."

He just sighs, or more sort of deflates. Then the sobs come again, not melodramatically or over-exaggerated to the point of annoyance, but silent, soul-wracking cries that make her swear up and down that when Dwight's calm enough she will corner Angela in the break room like some feral mother cat and demand she march up to Dwight's desk, admit she's intentionally trying to hurt him because she is a mean, cold-hearted hypocrite, and have her end things with a cheerful proposal for a date.

04.

The next day she slugs her way into work. Late night, bad morning--the flattening iron was on the fritz, her coffee machine decided that its 10-year guarantee was really only a 3-month guarantee, and, to top it all off, she spent a good forty minutes jammed in bumper-to-bumper traffic. She only _lives_ fifteen minutes away.

Bad.

She hangs her coat in its designated spot, rounds the desk like you'd round a mile-long track, and collapses into the chair with growing weariness and a sudden sense of fatigue. And there's nine unrelenting hours ahead of her she has to endure, most with a smile on her face and a chirp in her voice. That thought making its rounds, she bends at the waist to turn on her computer and is stopped short when she notices a Post-It note sticking to the screen.

'THANK YOU' is all it says, in large, sloppy letters.

Not Jim's handwriting, and even if it was, she can't imagine having done anything to be _thanked_ for--she blushes as a memory from the weekend resurfaces, when her and Jim spent most of the evening on the couch.

Dwight clears his throat, which makes her look up. He's not looking at her--he's looking at his computer screen, actually, the phone propped between his ear and his shoulder while he squints and stares at whatever's in front of him. And then his eyes flick to hers, so quick that if she hadn't already been used to the simple act of _watching_ people she would've missed it, before he's caught up in what he was doing all over again.

Oh.

She opens the top drawer of her desk, one where there's mostly old doodles and rubberbands and paperclips that had fallen victim in that Projectile Office Supplies war between her and Jim two years ago, and puts it in there.

And she's smiling.

05.

In the break room later that day, it feels like high school all over again.

Angela is sitting at a table that Andy is sitting at with Jim, and meanwhile Dwight's bunkered down at the corner table, by himself, half-swallowed by the shadows of the vending machine. He looks a little creepy, because he's mostly staring openly at Angela in a way that is both sad and _too much_, but he has this weekend-stubble, his hair is all disheveled and uncombed. So _not_ like the Dwight she's known around the office, the one whose work clothes are always perfectly pressed, his hair combed and his face facial-hair free because that, _Pam_, is what a diligent employee looks like.

Jim looks at her with wide, pleading eyes--save me, dear god, you don't know the horror Andy and Angela are putting me through--but she just offers a small, defeated shrug and heads to Schrute Territory. It kind of feels like claiming sides, setting her brown lunch bag down and pulling out a seat, but what was she supposed to do? He left that stupid Post-It note on her computer. She can't just pretend to have never seen it. And it meant something to him, obviously, to do that, because when does Dwight ever take the initiative to be anything but a pain?

He doesn't make eye contact with her when she's settled, and she doesn't look at him either, but at least he's stopped staring at Angela. Who, by the way, is now sending daggers over their way. Great. Wonderful. She wants to say, _Well, maybe YOU should be the one sitting here, Angela_, but that's way too brash, and, besides, now Andy's involved too. He's psycho, but he still has some feelings.

She takes a flavorless bite of her ham sandwich, feeling sorry for herself.

06.

It gets easier that third day. Which is probably a little disheartening to think about: that after years of thinking Dwight was weird and socially awkward, all it really takes is two long days and the start of a third for the barriers to begin to break down and for him to start making _sense_. And, yeah. Sense. Mark that down, because you'll probably never see it admitted out loud again.

They're sitting at lunch, just her and him, because these are the claimed sides of this sigh-worthy, ongoing war, and he's flipping through some magazine. A science fiction magazine, Pam thinks, if she's catching the blur of all the rapidly flicked through pages right. Plus, it's called something like _Science Fiction Weekly_, so only her most minimal of detective skills are being put to use here.

"Question," he says, without looking up. Flipping through the pages still. "Nod only once, do not blink: do you watch Battlestar Galactica?"

Uhm, no. Big fat no. Ridiculously, she doesn't know how to answer. Vocally seems out of the question. Apparently, so is blinking. So she settles for a two-for-one eye-widening, mouth slackening combination.

He isn't looking at her, but he notices anyway. A disgusted yet anticipated breath of air is expelled. He says, "Figures," in a way that feels much more like an insult than it should.

The very worst thing that Pam's possibly ever done, including the time she lied to her mom when she was seventeen about spending the night over at Roy's (she still feels guilty about that, and she's still never totally told her mom the truth), is ask, "What, like it's the greatest show ever?" in a way that is meant more to insult his poor taste in television but serves instead to light something within him, stir some crazy, geeky passion.

He meets her eyes now, fiercely. "Uh, yeah."

Oh great. Suddenly there's this look of intensity where before was only lethargy, and while maybe she should feel happy about that, at the moment regret is the only thing that fills her. Well, that and horror. Loads of it. Because, oh, there he goes, talking about characters she wouldn't know the difference between if he'd brought along a visual comparison chart, detailed storylines, no, no, he's talking about the eternal raging war between good versus evil and she _swears_ there's some underlying meaning in there about him versus Andy.

It ends with a calculated, "You should watch it," one that he seems hesitant to give. Yeah, heaven forbid she take him up on his suggestion and sully the good name of Battlestar Galactica by viewing it with her troubled, misguided eyes.

She digests this as more pointless, fill-in-the-blank conversation, not taking it seriously. Which ends up being regret number two.

07.

"Here."

Dwight sets something down at her desk. Not just casually, not carefully or anything, but with a heavy importance.

She looks at him in question, then sort of straightens her back a little so that she can see over the top of the desk and--oh.

"It's the mini-series," he says while she sits there having trouble keeping her face composed in a mask of gratitude and interest. She can see Jim and his little wide-eyed _What's going on, and, more importantly, why aren't I involved?_ look trying to get her attention, but she ignores it. There will be all the time in the world for her to smack Jim for getting her involved like this.

She doesn't move a muscle, except for a twitching of those located near the mouth so that she can form something vaguely resembling a smile. "Thanks, Dwight."

He just stands there, and she just sits there, and Jim just stares and stares. And there are, like, three cameras, all filming this like it's the most interesting storyline the day's produced so far. It hits her in a moment of horror: it probably _is_ the most interesting storyline. How are they slanting this? Oh god, does Dwight have a crush on her? No, no. That's paranoia talking. That's insanity rearing its ugly head. She helped him out. It's what... coworkers... do. That's it.

Finally, he nods, like he's pleased that she didn't fling holy water at him and yell at him to get away, and then he moves towards his desk in a way that is smooth, casual, almost kind of cocky.

The cameras move in closer. Jim's eyes get wider. And Pam feels this drop in her stomach as she reaches for the DVD and tucks it in her purse that has nothing to do with either.

08.

The next day he's at her desk again. Eager. Impatient. She hasn't even switched on the computer yet and he's already there, hopped up like some kid on sugar. That's when she notices that her stash of gumdrops is looking a little low, which means he probably _is_ hopped up on sugar.

"So?" He taps at her desk, plays with the lid of the candy bin.

A week ago, an _eon_ ago, she probably would've been annoyed by the single actuality of his mere presence. She probably would've rolled her eyes or brushed him off with a fake phone call. Maybe played along in a way that would've went over his head, but would've been something her and Jim would've laughed about later. Like, _Oh, the CIA? Never heard of them. Are they like a football league or something?_

But now she finds herself smiling, because he's oddly sort of easy to get along with when you ignore the fact that he loves his job way too much, idolizes Michael way, _way_ too much, and has the tact of a 3-year old.

"I liked it," she admits, not without some surprise. Who knew the show would actually capture her attention? And hold it? She'd made Jim watch it with her, which presented a whole slew of problems, mainly in the _getting him to watch it_ part of the equation. Let's just say there were a whole lot of promises made, not the least of which was that she now had to openly nominate herself for the _Hottest in the Office_ award at this year's Dundies. Besides, once she reminded him of their first official date night that eventually ended up with the two of them snuggling awkwardly together on her old, beat up, second-hand couch watching an episode of Ugly Betty, he had to basically suck it up and own to the fact that he _owed her one_.

Which is also why he would be opposing her in the aforementioned award field.

In front of her, almost glowing with pride, Dwight beams.

She's feeling good this morning, which is why she adds, "I liked Starbuck." Saying that feels a little absurd, because in any other corner of the world, in any other conversation, they'd be talking about brewed coffee.

Dwight's look of pride triples. "Yes!" he says, pumping the air with a closed fist. She almost feels sorry for him--that something so simple makes him so happy--but she'd told herself a week ago that she'd stop feeling that way about him, because it wasn't fair, and because that wasn't the type of person she wanted to be.

Michael comes out of his office, up to her desk. Dwight looks at him in a way where he expects Michael to understand, without knowing what they're smiling about, and to automatically share their joy.

"Pam-bizzle and Dwi-zite!" he says in the predictable, over-the-top way that she'd like to say he adopted since the documentary crew moved in, but in truth she's been on the receiving end of since day 1 of her employment at Dunder Mifflin. She _almost_ quit that second day (there are only so many 'Pam Anderson' jokes a person can sit through before you start to sympathize with those people who go nuts and blow up their office building) but somehow managed--with the shared empathy from Jim, and the insistence of Roy--that she stick it out, at least for another day. She's still 'sticking it out'.

Dwight's still smiling. Michael asks, "What's the frizzy my hizzy?" which must mean _something_, but who knows what. Jim is back there looking all lost and out the loop.

Before anyone can answer, or before Jim can invite himself into the conversation, Angela pops up beside her desk. Almost literally. She's smiling in a way that isn't too reassuring, and that thought is only cemented when she FYI's to Michael, to the whole office, to _Dwight_, that her and Andy had a successful second date, he was a perfect gentleman, and who knows, maybe there will be a third date, maybe she'll introduce him to her remaining alive cats? She feels like he could be The One.

Michael looks happy for her, because he's oblivious to everything, of course, and Pam watches Angela as she takes this sick sort of enjoyment out of Dwight's 180 from total joy to complete misery. And it takes everything in her to not call her out, because, seriously, what the hell?

Dwight shuffles off to his desk looking like a kicked puppy, and it annoys Pam, it actually pisses her off, that they're right back where they started again, all because Angela has a cold-streak a mile long.

Eventually Michael stops professing his deep love and paternal type approval for Andy and Angela as a couple and goes back to his office, and Angela, pleased as can be, scurries her way back to her desk, and Pam gets up and walks past Jim with a _Oh boy, here we go again_ forced smile that also says _I know, I've completely sucked lately, I'll make it up to you somehow_ and stands next to Dwight. He's slumped over, staring at nothing.

"Hey, Dwight."

"Go away."

Instead, she sits at the edge of his desk. "You know what I was thinking? How cool would it be if Adama was a Cylon?"

That perks his interest as well as anything short of a declaration of a love for beets could have. He's still sort of slouched, but he looks up at her in a way that has nothing to do with Angela. "No, no, that would never work. Dammit, Pam. Adama is the commander of the entire fleet. He _can't_ be a Cylon."

"Oh." She smiles. "I guess that makes sense."

09.

The next morning, a new set of DVDs are at her desk. Season 1, this time, not just the mini-series. He left a Post-It note on top, _You'll see what I mean soon enough_ the only thing written.

This time Jim notices, and he's less than obliging when it comes to just shrugging his shoulders and not asking questions like he's done so far. He corners her in the break room later, worried that she's spending maybe a little too much time with Dwight, don't you think?

"Seriously, Pam," he says, like that's all there is to say. "It's _Dwight_."

"I know." She feels defensive about it. Like she has to justify their conversations. Like sharing a set of DVDs means something.

"He hasn't brainwashed you, has he? My god, he's brainwashed you. Pam, are you still in there? Pam? Blink twice if you can hear me."

"Jim!" She smacks at him playfully, feeling that tug in her gut that's been missing the past week. They haven't had lunch together since that first day of abandoned allegiances, they haven't had a date in just as long. She misses him.

She sighs and admits, "I feel so bad for him."

He's still smiling, still trying to make a joke out of it. "Yeah," he says. "But it's _Dwight_."

And that's where they get stuck.


End file.
